


This Far In

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, Caning, Choking, Crimson Flower AU, Dom/sub, Leashes, M/M, Painplay, Post-Canon, Some angst, Zipper (BDSM), public BDSM, the politics of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: With the war in Fódlan behind him, Claude now sits upon the Almyran throne. At his feet kneels the former Prince of Faerghus, previously presumed dead. Their arrangement is a source of gossip among all who attend their court.Unbeknownst to those who observe them, Claude and Dimitri share a secret: behind closed doors, Dimitri is not the one who kneels.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 21
Kudos: 117
Collections: Dimiclaude Wild Weekend





	This Far In

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags before reading.
> 
> This fic takes place in an alternate universe where characters are naturally dominant or submissive and D/s relationships are the norm. This plays a role in the political environment. 
> 
> Although the sex and BDSM in this fic are pre-negotiated and consensual, there is a scene where the characters must perform a BDSM scene for an audience for political reasons, regardless of their personal feelings on the matter. 
> 
> Note there is also a brief reference to a pre-ts relationship. 
> 
> Written for Dimiclaude's Wild Weekend Day 1: Public and Breathplay

Claude is a diplomatic king. 

During the two years in which he has occupied the throne, he has held audience with a variety of representatives from neighboring countries, from Sreng to Dagda. Each country has its own decorum and Claude is always prepared for cultural differences. He embraces them, as he has always wished to do, in an effort to begin the bonds of peace. It isn't always easy, but years of practice have honed his charm — and, if he's honest, his schemes as well. Regardless of any tension that exists between Almyra and other countries, they all have common ground in being tired of war. 

Diplomacy is second-nature for him; it has been since long before the war. He is rarely ruffled, his patience never truly tested. 

But there are exceptions to all rules, and right now, he's sitting across from one of them. 

Sunna of Albinea, ambassador of the sparsely populated country that is a mystery Claude would like to crack one day, keeps dipping her attention downward, to where Dimitri kneels upon a cushion beside Claude. Dimitri wears a set of simple, plain robes that are unassuming on his large frame. His head is bowed, hair braided in back to keep it from obscuring his face, and his hands rest palm-up upon his thighs. His body language is open, inviting inspection. He remains calm under Sunna's stare. 

Sunna is older than the two of them combined, weathered and harsh like her land is rumored to be. At first glance, she seems unassuming — dressed modestly, with gray hair impeccably wound in a tight bun, everything about her appearance could be forgettable, were it not for disapproving air with which she observes her hosts. She is not drinking her tea, nor is she offering much by way of conversation. Her gaze is nearly hostile; the longer she sits across from him, the more Claude feels a prickling under his skin. It gets worse when she raises her eyes to study him as though she sees through all of his secrets. 

Dimitri, normally very still and quiet during proceedings like these, subtly shifts to brush his arm against Claude's leg. 

Claude is dressed in royal finery for this occasion, complete with a crown that rests just above his brow. Thin as it is, the weight of the crown grows tiresome after long hours spent in front of company — especially when said company is so scrutinizing. 

He smiles. "I see you have taken an interest in my submissive." He lifts his teacup from the table and sips it. 

Sunna's submissive was not permitted to enter the tearoom. Claude was not allowed to interact with him at all. He kneels outside the door, forbidden from keeping company with dominants. It is extreme by Almyra's standards, but Claude is open-minded. He would love to hear all about Albinea's customs. 

But Sunna has no interest in sharing any information. "On the contrary," she says, tone even but commanding, the hint of an accent on her tongue. "I am interested in you, King Khalid." 

"I'm flattered," Claude replies. "But my story isn't nearly as interesting as you think." 

She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes as she assesses him. "You are aware of the rumors." 

It isn't a question. Claude answers it anyway, dismissing said rumors with a wave of his hand. "Of course. Every monarch gets his share of slander around here. My father's reign was worse when it came to falsehoods." Then again, many of the rumors around his father were true — he had been sleeping with, and eventually married, a woman from Fódlan. His half-Almyran son was a weakling, in the beginning. Fódlan blood now sits upon the throne. 

As it turns out, many of the rumors around Claude are true, too. 

Before Sunna can respond, an attendant approaches to switch out her teacup with another, as her untouched tea will be cold by now. When that attendant leaves to take the old teacup away, another approaches with a teapot in hand. He pours fresh, steaming tea in the new cup, then looks at Claude to see if he is in need of a refill. Claude shakes his head, so the attendant bows and retreats back to his position to watch for the next time he is needed. 

"Why doesn't your submissive serve us?" Sunna asks when the deed is done. She rests her hand on the table, fingers loosely wrapping around the teacup she still will not raise to her lips. "This teatime would be much more entertaining if I were watching him struggle to handle a fragile teacup." 

Claude feels that prickle along the back of his neck again, the words laced with an insinuation that simultaneously concerns and irritates him. His smile does not falter, however, and he doesn't give into the temptation to look down at Dimitri, though he does pay attention to him in the periphery of his vision. Dimitri's head remains bowed. 

"I have other uses for him," Claude replies, setting his teacup on the table. He places his hand atop Dimitri's head, then lightly runs his fingers along his hair, down his braid. "As I'm sure you can imagine." 

Sunna smiles now. It spreads across her face in a way that appears threatening. "I would like a demonstration, if you would be so kind. You can show me how you managed to tame the wild prince of Faerghus." She pauses for effect. "Instead of the other way around." 

Claude feels his smile tightening, but he has had many years of practice in keeping his true feelings hidden. He is careful not to misstep — forces out a laugh that sounds natural and amused. "I understand the feeling. I often like to be reminded of how I tamed him." Claude allows himself to look at Dimitri now, continuing to pet him as he speaks. "But we are here to talk about peace, not put my submissive on display." 

"I have heard that Almyra loves, as you say, putting their submissives on display. Was that a lie?" 

"A stereotype," Claude replies, tone still easy. "Not all of us want to perform for an audience." 

"But a king must," Sunna accurately points out. "It is his duty, especially if declining will cause his peace talks to fall through." 

She's correct about the politics of sex. Kings often demonstrate their dominance for subjects and visitors alike. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that Claude has had to prove his ownership over Dimitri. In the beginning, it had been necessary to do so often, to quell doubts as he assumed the throne. But that time has passed. These days, if a show is required, Claude has others to perform in his place. 

"I suppose my hands are tied." Claude tugs on Dimitri's braid. Dimitri does not react. "Though, if I do this for you, I'm going to need your word that we can move on with peace talks after I'm finished. I'd hate to waste more of your time." 

Claude yanks Dimitri's head back by his braid, eliciting a grunt. With his head raised like this, Sunna is given full view of the collar around his neck — the thin band of chain mail that rests along his collarbone, connected at the notch of his throat by a bejeweled wyvern's head. The wyvern holds a ring in its mouth. 

Sunna watches with subdued interest, but her eyes linger on the collar, then flick upward to Dimitri's face. Dimitri breathes through his nose — audible breaths that grow louder, more labored, the longer Claude maintains his grip in his hair. Though Claude is not looking at his face, he knows that Dimitri is glaring, that he has parted his lips to reveal teeth. 

No one wants the once-wild prince of Faerghus to bend without a little show of spirit. Everyone wants to see a hint of the beast he was rumored to be. 

Sunna is no exception. She keeps her eyes on Dimitri as she nods. "Consider my word yours." More amenable now that Claude has given into her demands, she finally raises her teacup and brings it to her lips. 

Claude holds out a hand. One of his attendants leaves the room and returns a moment later with a leather leash. He steps forward to place it in Claude's upturned palm, then retreats back to his original position. 

Some dominants prefer their attendants to do the dirty work. They like to sit back while their submissives are leashed and bound, while their circulation is studied and their body language observed. Not Claude. The one rule that he makes sure everyone knows and no one breaks is that he is the only one who touches Dimitri. 

Keeping his grip in Dimitri's hair, Claude fastens the leash to his collar. He bends low to whisper in Dimitri's ear, loud enough for Sunna to hear. "You know what to do." He releases Dimitri's hair and steps back with the leash in hand. 

Dimitri hesitates, so Claude tugs on the leash. Grunting, Dimitri drops on all fours to crawl across the small space between them. Once in front of Claude, he stops, but remains on his hands and knees. 

Claude extends his wrist and hikes back his sleeve, revealing a silver bracelet inlaid with sapphires. Dimitri bows his head to kiss the metal, his teeth scraping against the skin of Claude's wrist as he does so. Claude focuses on that sensation as Dimitri mouths at the bracelet, giving it a subtle pull. 

"What is this?" Sunna asks. 

Dimitri releases the bracelet and looks up at Claude. Claude indulges himself with a downward glance. 

"A ritual," Claude replies with a smile. "They help keep Dimitri focused on his place in our little arrangement. Don't they?" This he directs down to Dimitri, who opens his mouth to reply. Before he manages to speak the first syllable, Claude places the leash handle between his parted lips. Dimitri exhales forcefully, but bites down on the leather. 

"Stand," Claude instructs. Dimitri obeys, slowly rising to his feet. The next instruction Claude delivers in Almyran. " _Hands on the wall_." He knows better than to say anything worthwhile in Almyran; if Sunna is worth her weight as an ambassador, she will have enough functional knowledge of the language to pick up on the meaning of his words. But this, too, is a kind of ritual — a way of checking in. At the beginning of all of this, he and Dimitri established it as a code: he offers an instruction in Almyran, and Dimitri nonverbally communicates his state of mind. 

What Claude is really asking is, _Is this okay?_

Dimitri's response comes in the way he splays his hands along the wall, placing them at just above shoulder height. Too high or too low would warrant a correction — Claude would move close and Dimitri would communicate further in additional subtle gestures. By presenting himself like this, Dimitri is telling him, _Do it_. 

So Claude does. 

He approaches Dimitri. The robe he wears is easily pulled away from his backside and tucked into the sash at the front, exposing only what must be bared. This is a private rule of Claude's — keep Dimitri as clothed as possible in public. Like this, the worst of his scars — and his vulnerability — is reserved for Claude's eyes only. 

Because he wears no undergarments, his ass is immediately visible — and immediately commented upon. "I see no marks on him." Sunna's tone turns judgmental once again. 

In contrast, Claude keeps his tone light and his eyes on Dimitri. "Not all forms of dominance leave marks." 

Sunna says, "Marks are a source of pride in my country." 

Claude understands that. He, too, has memories of touching welts and bruises — tender places that remain sore for days, reminders of submission when the world around them prevents private moments. He has been proud of his marks. 

"Here, too," Claude offers, running his palm over Dimitri's bare ass, then giving it a light slap. "But that doesn't mean we give them so freely." 

That placates Sunna. She falls quiet again, offering only the soft sound of a sip of tea in response. 

Claude takes it as his cue to continue. 

He speaks to an attendant in Almyran, giving him brief instructions on which tool to retrieve. The attendant leaves. While waiting for him to return, Claude steps directly behind Dimitri, temporarily blocking him from Sunna's view. 

He cups Dimitri's asscheeks with both hands and breathes in deeply, shutting his eyes while he rubs his palms over them. Dimitri pushes back into his grip — marginally, merely a slight movement of his hips — but doesn't react beyond that. Claude squeezes his ass — lightly, then harder, and then harder still — and listens to Dimitri breathe in and out. 

" _I'm going to hurt you_ ," he says in Almyran, moving his hands to Dimitri's hips and pressing his body against Dimitri's. 

Dimitri replies with two words, incomprehensible around the leash, but Claude knows what they are. 

_You won't._

Claude laughs lightly; it would be wry, were it not for their audience. He steps back just in time for the attendant to approach and hand him his chosen tool: a long, simple cane. 

He won't. 

Claude is good at this. He understands how to wield a cane — how to make a submissive hiss and groan, the ways he can combine pleasure and pain. He has been doing this for a long time, and his wrist moves as easily with a cane in hand as it does a throwing axe. He leaves welts and bruises with the same precision as he sends an arrow directly into a bullseye. 

In theory, this is easy. 

But Dimitri is accustomed to pain that goes far beyond the strike of a cane or crack of a whip. His scars run deeper than flesh. Compared to what he has been through, this is nothing. Not even the harshest tools can reach the deep places within him where he remains tender and unhealed. 

And he knows that Claude wouldn't — couldn't — truly hurt him. 

But Claude will strike him — a promise he offers in the way he drags the tip of the cane up along Dimitri's calf, over his thigh, and along the crease of his ass. Dimitri braces himself by bending at an angle, ass out, awaiting the first strike. 

Sunna says nothing more. The scene has officially begun. 

Claude pulls the cane back, allows an anticipatory moment to pass, then raps it against Dimitri's calves — light, rhythmic taps, each one a soft sound of contact against his skin. Dimitri remains unmoved under the cane, his breathing measured, his posture unfaltering. That is, until Claude breaks the rhythm with a single sharp strike that makes Dimitri hiss in response, his leg muscles tightening. While the welt begins to redden, Claude resumes his tapping, lulling Dimitri back into steady breathing. 

Then he strikes Dimitri's calves again, harder this time. The welt appears quickly, darkening his skin as Dimitri gasps through the sensation. 

Claude drags the tip of the cane over the welts and works his way upward again, to Dimitri's ass. There, he taps harder, moving his wrist quickly, watching as Dimitri's steady breathing begins to hitch in expectation, waiting for what he knows is coming. 

Claude flicks his wrist with more force, striking Dimitri's ass hard, and before Dimitri has a chance to fully react, does it a second time. The cane audibly whips through the air and makes loud contact with his skin. This time, Dimitri grunts, the leash garbling the sound, but his hands remain obediently planted on the wall. 

While Claude waits for the welts to rise and Dimitri to settle, he imagines the sensation — the burst of pain that sears through skin and muscle both, and the warmth that spreads when the stinging subsides. He breathes in tandem with Dimitri, remembering the way the pain can quiet everything else in one's mind, settle even the worst case of overthinking. 

He thinks, and he longs, but when Dimitri is ready, he strikes again, a loud sound that ends up overpowered by Dimitri's muffled groaning. Dimitri's whole body reacts this time, instinctively pulling away from the cane as best he can without breaking position. Claude waits until he relaxes enough to take more, and then Claude increases the intensity — three overlapping strikes, one after the other, mounting in pain together, causing Dimitri to writhe, a guttural cry tearing from his throat. His fingers curl against the wall, digging into it, but his hands remain otherwise planted. 

Claude traces the welts with the cane, then steps forward to do the same with his nails, scratching over the marks, eliciting a low whimper from Dimitri. With his body once again blocking Dimitri from Sunna's view, Claude allows himself to transition to a more tender moment — cups his ass to soothe. 

Dimitri pulls him out of that indulgence. He bucks backward, grunting, reminding Claude not to lose his focus. Claude steps back and slaps his ass, right over those red lines, loud enough for the sound to echo in the room. 

Dimitri moans. 

Claude resumes caning. He picks up the pace — strikes hard once, waits until the pain mounts, then strikes again. He repeats this several times, until Dimitri's head is bowed against the wall, his hands now fists, his grunts and groans freely uttered. Claude finishes with one final, harsh strike along Dimitri's upper thighs, which elicits a cry so loud, Dimitri nearly loses the leash. 

He doesn't, though. The leash remains in his mouth, his hands remain on the wall, and he remains standing at a presentation that allows Sunna to see the raised marks along his body. He breathes heavily, groaning through the aftershocks of sensation. 

Claude hands off the cane to an attendant. He makes a show of adjusting his own clothing — tugging on a sleeve, smoothing out his shirt — to allow Sunna a moment of observation. Then he carefully covers Dimitri's backside with the robe once again. 

Claude keeps public scenes non-sexual. There are many reasons for this — in part to protect Dimitri, in part to protect himself, and of course, in large part to avoid more rumors than he has already accumulated during his reign. But even if those were not factors, Claude would still choose not to continue, for the simple fact that he is always tired at the end of a scene. 

He feels exhausted — wrung out and unsteady. He wants nothing more than to retreat behind closed doors and allow himself the privacy to recover. But he has an audience — and Dimitri, who stands at the wall, still panting, awaiting his next command. 

"Kneel," Claude tells him. 

Dimitri pushes himself off of the wall. He opens and closes his hands, stretching them, as he drops to his knees. Claude bends and takes the leash handle from his mouth, then unclips the leash from his collar. Their eyes meet briefly, but Claude doesn't allow the eye contact to linger. 

"To your place." 

Dimitri crawls on all fours all the way back to Claude's chair. He kneels on the pillow. 

"Sit," Claude tells him, knowing that Sunna will appreciate this extra little show: Dimitri moving from kneeling to sitting on his welts, wincing as he does so. 

Claude inhales slowly. He exhales equally as slow as he hands off the leash to an attendant. Then he walks back to his chair, takes a seat, and offers Sunna a smile. 

"That was lovely," Sunna tells him, returning his smile. 

"Now that you're satisfied," Claude ventures, "I believe it is time to talk about that treaty." 

"Yes," Sunna agrees. "Let us talk." 

Beside his chair, Dimitri crosses his legs, an act that likely causes him more discomfort — but also allows his knee to brush against Claude's ankle. 

Claude focuses on that contact as they begin. 

* * *

As soon as he shuts the door to his soundproofed chambers, Claude sighs, slumping against it. "Finally." 

Dimitri takes a seat upon Claude's bed. Unlike earlier, he does not wince as he puts pressure on his welts. "Today was difficult." 

"After all that research, all those reassurances." Claude had been in written contact with the Albinean chieftain for months, planning for this meeting. He gave no indication that this would be anything other than an amicable visit. Claude had been prepared for it to go awry — he will not allow himself to be caught off guard — but that doesn't mean he's happy about it. 

He's been questioned and doubted throughout most of his life; this pales in comparison to the many trials that he's been through. And yet it grates on him, because he felt he finally reached a place where the rumors had quieted and respect was freely given. 

"We have grown complacent," Dimitri states. "We are too comfortable with this arrangement." 

"This is the only arrangement we have," Claude says, trying for patience, though Dimitri knows him well enough to read beyond his tone. "Besides, we weren't caught off guard, and it all worked out." 

"There will be a day when it does not." Dimitri's voice is firm, tinged with pessimism. "And then it will be too late." 

They have had variations of this argument before — more often in the beginning, when this arrangement was fragile and he and Dimitri struggled with the issue of trust. These days, their disagreements are more infrequent, but they tend to arise after grueling meetings or difficult negotiations. It's hardest when they've been forced into performing — into standing opposite of where they belong. They get out of sync, off kilter, and struggle to find their way back. 

Claude straightens, once again hiding his fatigue and the weight of everything that rests upon his shoulders. He smiles. "Ah, your faith in me is so easily cast aside. I'm wounded." 

"I will not indulge your playacting tonight." Dimitri watches him, but offers nothing to ease the tension between them — does nothing to restore their equilibrium. "Your letters are not enough." 

That is one point that Claude cannot argue. 

Two years ago, when he was fighting for the throne, he could not shake his loss in Fódlan from the minds of his people. They questioned his dominance and his ability to lead. Without support, Claude's bid for the throne looked bleak. Until one evening, when he received a report that the former Prince of Faerghus had been found alive in Almyra. Said to be enraged and out of control, he was put in a cell until his future could be decided. 

It was a stroke of luck. Dimitri was the only person still alive who knew of Claude's true nature. 

Claude had gone to him with an offer: if Dimitri agreed to wear Claude's collar to secure his bid for the throne, Claude would ensure Dimitri's return home. 

Now Claude is king, but his side of the deal remains unfulfilled. He has sent many letters across the border, seeking to establish contact with Edelgard, as well as those who are still loyal to Dimitri. He knows that Edelgard is fighting a new war against dark forces; her numbers are suffering from the non-stop fighting. He could offer assistance on the basis that they negotiate Dimitri's return — find a way to resolve misunderstandings and finally work together against a common enemy. Thus far, however, all of Claude's letters have gone unanswered; his messengers have either returned with news of failure, or they haven't returned at all. 

He will not consider another option — not yet. Dimitri must return home one day. Claude would never seek to deprive him of that. But there is so much on the line — the fragile, tentative peace that is sure to shatter the moment Dimitri crosses the border. All of Claude's dreams, and the people to whom Dimitri wishes to return, could be thrown right back at the mercy of war. Claude will not allow that to happen. 

And then there's the matter of what Dimitri does for him as well, and the impact that his departure will have on Claude's reign. Selfish as it is, Claude has to consider Dimitri's eventual departure very carefully. Dimitri has been integral to his position on the throne; should Claude's true nature be revealed, he would be dethroned, and his dreams would die a different kind of death. 

"I have eyes and ears in Fódlan, too," Claude reminds him, keeping his tone light. "And I always have more than one trick up my sleeve." 

He holds so much in the palm of his hands — balances all of it until he's stretched thin. But he never lets go. He didn't years ago, when ousted from Fódlan by a loss, and he won't now, no matter how heavy the burden. 

Dimitri studies him in a manner similar to Sunna. His eyes are cold, reminiscent of the way he looked at Claude when Claude first dragged him out of a cell and brought him back into the light. 

"Your tricks beget more tricks." 

Claude laughs. It feels bitter on his tongue. "I can't argue that." 

"I am weary of this," Dimitri tells him. 

_I am weary of you._

The words aren't sharp; they don't feel like a slap. They settle over Claude quietly, another plan stretched to the seams, another potential loss at the horizon. 

_A little longer,_ he might say. _Please, be patient._

But he is weary too. "Who isn't?" he asks lightly. 

A long silence stretches between them. Claude takes off his crown and jewelry and sets each piece on his dresser — save for the silver bracelet, inlaid with sapphires. That he does not remove. 

"I did not mean it in that way," Dimitri suddenly says, voice lowered. 

Claude knows his words are true. He has been open with Dimitri about most of his plans and Dimitri knows that they do not have much by way of alternatives as they currently stand. This frustration is born not only of the desire to make progress, but also the unsettled dynamic between them. 

But that knowledge does not dispel the words. It does not ease the sense that Claude must do more — work harder to send Dimitri home, before everything goes awry. 

He says, with a wave of his hand, "Don't worry. You'd have to say worse than that to hurt my feelings." 

Dimitri sighs, reaching behind his head to unclasp the collar. He removes it from his neck and holds it out. "If you would." 

With the exception of the first few months after Dimitri was found alive in Almyra, he has always delivered his commands in this way: polite, kind, respectful. It's that kindness that stirs Claude's desire to submit. 

He steps forward to take the collar, then returns to add it to the pile upon the dresser. He remains facing the wall, back turned to Dimitri. 

Dimitri speaks again. "Come here." 

Claude hesitates. He wants to obey, has been craving even a shred of normalcy to be restored between them. He wants to touch Dimitri and be touched, in ways that make him forget everything that led up to this. He yearns. 

But he hesitates because even now — even after all they have been through together — Claude can never leap head-first into vulnerability. He still feels raw — he still hears Dimitri's words. 

"Claude." Firmer now, the name that only Dimitri uses, a remnant of the past they keep between them. 

Claude closes his eyes. He breathes in and out, against the tug within him that encourages him to listen. He does this sometimes, to remind himself that his submission is voluntary. He could revoke it at any moment. He could resist. 

Dimitri waits. He knows Claude's struggles as well as Claude knows his; he understands that defiance is sometimes born of necessity — that infractions do not have to end in punishment. 

Which is why Claude goes to him — why Claude will always drop to his knees for Dimitri, when he will kneel for no one else. 

He walks across the room and lowers himself in front of Dimitri — settles on his knees before him, crossing his arms behind his back. As soon as he's in position, he feels relief settle over him — an internal calm that blooms from restoring the balance between them. The constant drone within his mind begins to slow. 

Dimitri cups his cheek. He gently moves his thumb along Claude's cheekbone. 

When he was younger, Claude used to wonder how he was born a submissive, when giving up control was so dangerous for his position. He used to wonder why his mind, his schemes, his tactics didn't warrant him the role of dominant. 

He knows now that submission serves a purpose; it offers his mind a much-needed reprieve. The burdens upon him are so great, and his mind is always so active, that he craves moments of true silence; he needs the opportunity to quiet down, to go silent, to simply be — something he rarely manages to accomplish on his own. 

Similarly, he used to wonder why the polite and conscientious prince of Faerghus was born dominant — a man who is overly prone to apologizing and phrases his orders like requests. 

He knows now that Dimitri's dominance serves a purpose for him as well. It grounds him when he loses purchase. It proves to him that he can maintain control over himself and others — and reminds him that he is capable of handling breakable things. 

They stay like this for several quiet moments, Claude kneeling and Dimitri accepting him through touch. After earlier, this simple position is enough for them both. Claude's mind settles. Dimitri relaxes. 

"I am sorry," Dimitri says after a while. 

Claude quirks a small smile at that — genuine, if fragile. Dimitri is the only dominant that Claude has met who would apologize so openly while sitting in such a position of power. It has always been alluring. 

"It's hard on us both," Claude replies, looking up into Dimitri's blue eyes. "Tomorrow I'll call in some favors — see if we can speed things along." 

Dimitri nods. The subject isn't dropped, but it is effectively tabled, set aside for another time and place. Tonight, they will focus on righting everything that went wrong throughout the day. 

"I have something in mind for tonight," Dimitri says, moving away from discussion of business. His fingers travel downward, coming to rest along Claude's throat. "You will want pain." It isn't a question; he is familiar with Claude's tastes and he knows that nights like this one warrant a complete clearing of his mind. 

"And you will want to give me that pain," Claude counters as Dimitri's fingers tighten along his throat. He swallows against his palm. 

Dimitri is careful with his touch. He is mindful of his strength, concerned about pushing too far. He second-guesses himself, especially now that he knows what it is to truly lose control. But that is why this trust is so important; he needs to know that he will not lose control simply because he gives into his urges. 

Claude tilts his chin up to remind him that this is okay — this is wanted. His heart beats quickly within his chest despite his assent, regardless of the fact that they have done this many times before. This moment — the offering of trust, the exchange of control, always begins with instinctual alarm, ingrained within Claude after so many years of fighting against his vulnerabilities. 

Dimitri's hand constricts around his throat. Claude's subsequent inhalation is squelched by his grip, the sound sharpened and promptly cut off. He keeps his arms tucked behind his back, his head up, and does not struggle against the thrill that travels up his spine as Dimitri denies him air. 

Dimitri watches him closely, carefully, but with parted lips that betray his interest. He increases the pressure of his fingers, causing Claude's body to flash with heat and excitement, a rush coursing through him. He begins to harden under his layers of silk, royal garments now too warm, too constricting, much like the hand around his neck. 

And then the moment that they both seek — the space between not-enough and too-much, where panic surfaces and threatens to spread. It is the moment where Claude's mind is completely and utterly cleared of all thought beyond the feeling of Dimitri's hand on his throat and his inability to breathe. He makes a strangled sound, nearly forgetting himself as his arms jerk behind his back — 

and Dimitri releases him. 

Claude gulps down large breaths of soothing air, slumping to the side, resting his head against Dimitri's knee. His body relaxes; his mind remains calm. 

"Thank you," Dimitri murmurs, brushing his fingers along the places where they were tight mere seconds ago. 

"Mm," Claude replies, a lazy syllable that hangs between them until he speaks again. "So charming, even after having your hand around my neck." 

"I am afraid you will not be saying that for long," Dimitri says, a hint of a smile on his face. It's the first one Claude has seen all day. 

Claude is already aroused, but the sight of the smile, coupled with the promise in those words, draws forth a fresh surge of wanting. 

Dimitri stands over Claude. "Undress me, please." 

Claude looks up at him, easing his posture and uncrossing his arms. He remains on his knees but raises himself up atop them so he can reach the sash. He unties it, moving his fingers over the length of the fabric as he pulls it loose. He then releases it, allowing the sash to fall to the floor so his hands are free to roam over Dimitri's thighs, his hips, the hem of the robe, which parts to reveal skin. 

Slowly, he stands, and as he rises, he brushes his fingers along the robe, skirting them over Dimitri's abdomen, upward along his chest. Dimitri watches him, breathing deep, audible breaths that hitch as Claude dips his hands beneath the fabric, running his palms over Dimitri's shoulders as he casts the robe off of him. 

Dimitri's body is scarred. Jagged patches of hardened skin and bursts of discoloration betray the worst of his suffering during the war. But he is healthy, strong, far better off than he was in those first months of his time in Alymra. 

He is also half-hard as a result of those light touches, of the way Claude moves in close when he reaches behind Dimitri to find his braid and pull free his hair tie. They stand with their bodies barely touching until Claude has eased his fingers through most of Dimitri's braid. 

"To the bed," Dimitri murmurs. "Wait for me." 

Dimitri disappears into his adjoining room while Claude strips himself, shedding his royal garments and allowing them to pile upon the floor. Then he lies on the bed and waits. 

Dimitri returns with a handful of small wooden clamps, connected by a cord. 

"Oh," Claude says as Dimitri comes to stand at the foot of the bed. Claude's body alights with need all over again, breath catching in his chest when Dimitri pinches open one of the clamps. "You were serious about the pain." 

"I did promise," Dimitri replies. He climbs atop the bed, positions himself next to Claude's thigh, and holds the clamp above his abdomen. 

"I'm a little — _ah!_ " Dimitri catches a bit of Claude's skin with the clamp, releasing it so that it closes upon it — pinches it fiercely. Claude entirely forgets the sentence he meant to utter. 

From then on, Claude says nothing — only gasps and moans as Dimitri continues to arrange the clamps up the tender section of skin along his ribs. Each biting pinch builds upon the other, pain and arousal clouding Claude's mind. He whines when Dimitri crosses his chest by fastening two clamps on his nipples. His cock hardens with each teasing flick Dimitri affords the clamps. 

"How is that?" Dimitri asks when he's done, sitting up to admire his handwork. He taps the clamp that's fastened on Claude's right nipple, and Claude moans, stretching his body to channel the pain, his toes curling and hands clutching the blanket beneath him. 

"Exactly what I needed," he exhales. His mind is already floating free of thoughts of politics and schemes, focused only on the present moment — only on the sensation of the clamps and the way they jostle when Dimitri guides his legs back and positions himself between them. 

Dimitri prepared for this in more ways than one. His cock is already slick and hard as he presses it against Claude's rim. He pushes inside steadily, unrelentingly, and every time Claude tenses, he feels both the burn of Dimitri spreading him open and the bite of the clamps along his skin. He gasps, and Dimitri murmurs to him — reminds him to relax, to breathe, to take him in full. 

Claude does — he shuts his eyes and groans his way through the sensations until Dimitri is entirely inside of him. 

Then Dimitri pauses, allowing him a moment of adjustment. 

Claude opens his eyes. He hooks his legs around Dimitri's hips, hissing at the reminder that the clamps are still very much in place. Dimitri leans in close, looking down at him, admiring the pained awe that Claude openly wears for him and no one else — the vulnerability. The need. 

Then Dimitri fucks him. 

He doesn't hold back. He fucks him hard, each thrust driving into Claude without consideration of mercy. It's intense, so much so that Claude cries out unbidden, shutting his eyes once more as pleasure and pain mount together, mingling so entirely, he can no longer tell the difference — no longer _needs_ to know the difference, only that he simultaneously craves it and yearns for the relief that is to come. 

While Dimitri slides his cock out of him and then thrusts it back inside, he pushes back one of Claude's legs, shoving it onto the clamps that line his body. Tears gather in Claude's eyes and the words that claw their way out of Claude's throat are entirely incomprehensible, expressions of pained pleasure. 

The angling of his body affords Dimitri the access he needs to thrust just as hard, but this time not as deep, instead focusing on the spot that makes Claude shudder, makes him whimper brokenly — the spot that drives him to the brink of truly losing control. 

Dimitri pumps into him and grasps the cord that connects all the clamps together. 

Claude nears release, his body tensing, thighs quivering, nails digging into the blanket — 

And then Dimitri yanks the cord, ripping off all the clamps in one consecutive motion. Claude screams — white-hot pain and pleasure mounting all at once as he comes so hard, he's left trembling through the aftershocks. 

Dimitri continues to thrust, drawing out Claude's final waves of pleasure. Then he reaches his own climax, losing his rhythm once he peaks. He comes, body lurching from the force of it, Claude's name on his lips as he fills him. 

Dimitri does not pull out immediately. He takes the time to talk to Claude, first — to murmur reassurances. He touches his face, runs his fingers over the places that are sore from the clamps, brushes his lips over the silver bracelet that serves as Claude's collar. He says, "You did well," while Claude's mind drifts, completely relaxed. 

When Dimitri does move, he's careful, as he always is. He takes care in pulling out, and then covers Claude while he retrieves a cloth. He cleans Claude first, and then himself, and then he settles back into bed with Claude and holds him. 

There was a time, before the war, where Claude denied both himself and Dimitri these important moments — when he brushed aside his vulnerabilities and smiled away his fears. He would leave as soon as they were finished, distancing himself to cope with his feelings in the aftermath, abandoning Dimitri to simmer in doubt. Back then, Dimitri carried Claude's secret alongside his own burdens, and Claude failed to see the toll that his choices would take on them both. 

Now Claude embraces this: the space where their masks are entirely removed, where they can bare every dream, every fear, and every nightmare — and keep each other grounded. 

In the morning, their pretense will begin anew. Claude will dress himself in his royal attire and put on his crown. He will lead Dimitri to his throne room and have him kneel at his side. He will work on a way to send Dimitri home without starting another war, and he will ensure he keeps his throne despite the secret that could end his reign. 

This is not where their story will come to an end, the king who sought peace and the exile who kept him company. 

But for a moment, it feels as though it could end with this: murmured phrases of affection, a sense of closeness, and the delicate trust that holds them together.


End file.
